“Well, then, you can’t have come to buy or to ask advances,” growled Duncan; “for you see that our store and all we possessed has been burnt by your precious countrymen.”
La Certe knew this, and professed himself profoundly grieved as well as indignant with his countrymen. No, he did not come to buy or to borrow, but to hire. The McKays had still some horses left, and carts. Could they not spare a horse and cart to him on hire?
“No, we can do nothing of the sort,” said Duncan shortly, resuming his axe and work. “You can go to the Company. Perhaps they will trust you—though they are fools if they do.”
La Certe was regretful, but not cast down. He changed the subject, commented on the building that was going on, the prospects of a good harvest, and finally took refuge in that stale old subject, the weather. Then he said in a casual way—as if it had just occurred to him—
“By the way—that knife that my wife got from Marie Blanc—”
Young McKay stopped, and looked quickly up for a moment, with a slight flush, but instantly resumed work.
“Well,” he said, quietly, “what about the knife?”
“Would you like to have it—my wife bade me inquire?”
“Why should I like to have it?” he asked carelessly.
“Oh! I thought it was yours,” said La Certe.